Thursday night, Abby and America were chattering in the bathroom. Abby’s demeanor toward America was a stark contrast to the way she regarded me: she’d barely spoken to me that evening since I refused to let her out of the bet earlier that day.
Hoping to smooth things over, I popped into the bathroom. “Wanna grab dinner?”
“Shep wants to check out that new Mexican place downtown if you guys wanna go,” America said, absently combing through her hair.
“I thought me and Pidge could go alone tonight.”
Abby perfected her lipstick. “I’m going out with Parker.”
“Again?” I said, feeling my face compress into a frown.
“Again,” she lilted.
The doorbell rang, and Abby burst out of the bathroom and rushed across the living room floor to open the front door.
I followed and stood behind her, making a point to give Parker my best death glare.
“Do you ever look less than gorgeous?” Parker asked.
“Based on the first time she came over here, I’m going to say yes,” I deadpanned.
Abby held up a finger to Parker, and turned around. I expected her to snap back something shitty, but she was smiling. She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed.
At first I braced myself, thinking she was trying to hit me, but once I recognized she was hugging me, I relaxed, and then pulled her into me.
She pulled away and smiled. “Thanks for organizing my birthday party,” she said, genuine appreciation in her voice. “Can I take a rain check on dinner?”
She had the warmth in her eyes I’d missed, but mostly I was surprised that after not speaking to me all afternoon and evening, she was in my arms.
“Tomorrow?”
She hugged me again. “Absolutely.” She waved to me as she took Parker’s hand and closed the door behind her.
I turned around and rubbed the back of my neck. “I . . . I need a . . .”
“A drink?” Shepley asked, an edge of worry in his voice. He looked to the kitchen. “We’re out of everything but beer.”
“Then I guess I’m making a trip to the liquor store.”
“I’ll go with you,” America said, jumping up to grab her coat.
“Why don’t you drive him in the Charger?” Shepley said, tossing her the keys.
America looked down at the collection of metal in her hand. “You sure?”
Shepley sighed. “I don’t think Travis should drive. Anywhere . . . if you get my meaning.”
America nodded enthusiastically. “Gotcha.” She grabbed my hand. “C’mon, Trav. Let’s get you liquored up.” I began to follow her out the door, but she stopped abruptly, turning on her heels. “But! You have to promise me something. No fighting tonight. Drowning your sorrows, yes,” she said, grabbing my chin and forcing me to nod my head. “Mean drunk, no.” She pushed my chin back and forth.
I pulled back, waving her hand away.
“Promise?” She raised one eyebrow.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “Then off we go.”
My fingers against my lips, my elbow leaning against the door, I watched the world pass my window. The cold front brought with it wild wind, whipping through the trees and bushes, and causing the hanging streetlights to swing back and forth. The skirt of Abby’s dress was pretty short. Parker’s eyes had better stay in his head if it happened to fly up. The way Abby’s bare knees look when she sat next to me in the backseat of the Charger came to mind, and I imagined Parker noticing her soft, shiny skin as I had, but with less appreciation and more salaciousness.
Just as the anger welled up within me, America pulled on the emergency brake. “We’re here.”
The soft glow of Ugly Fixer Liquor’s sign lit the entrance. America was my shadow down aisle three. It only took me a moment to find what I was looking for. The only bottle that would do for a night like tonight: Jim Beam.
“You sure you wanna go there?” America asked, her voice tinged with warning. “You do have a surprise birthday party to set up tomorrow.”
“I’m sure,” I said, taking the bottle to the counter.
The second my ass hit the passenger seat of the Charger, I twisted the cap and took a swig, leaning my head back against the headrest.
America watched me for a moment, and then shoved the gear into reverse. “This is going to be fun, I can tell.”
By the time we reached the apartment, I’d drunk the whiskey in the neck of the bottle, and made headway at the top.
“You didn’t,” Shepley said, spotting the bottle.
“I did,” I said, taking another swig. “You want some?” I asked, pointing the glass mouth in his direction.
Shepley made a face. “God no. I need to stay sober so I can react fast enough when you go all Travis-on-Jim-Beam on Parker later.”
“No, he won’t,” America said. “He promised.”
“I did,” I said with a smile, already feeling better. “I promised.”
The next hour Shepley and America did their best to keep my mind off things. Mr. Beam did his best to keep me numb. Halfway into hour two, Shepley’s words seemed slower. America giggled at the stupid grin on my face.
“See? He’s a happy drunk.”
I blew air through my lips, and they made a puff sound. “I’m not drunk. Not yet.”
Shepley pointed to the diminishing amber liquid. “If you drink the rest of that, you will be.”
I held up the bottle, and then looked at the clock. “Three hours. Must be a good date.” I lifted the bottle to Shepley, and then touched it to my lips, tilting it all the way back. The rest of the contents passed my numb lips and teeth, and burned all the way to my stomach.
“Jesus, Travis,” Shepley said with a frown. “You should go pass out. You don’t want to be up when she gets home.”
The sound of an engine grew louder as it approached the apartment and then idled outside. I knew the sound well—it was Parker’s Porsche.
A sloppy smile spread across my lips. “What for? This is where the magic happens.”
America watched me warily. “Trav . . . you promised.”
I nodded. “I did. I promised. I’m just going to help her out of the car.” My legs were under me, but I couldn’t feel them. The back of the couch proved to be a great stabilizer for my drunken attempt at walking.
My hand encompassed the knob, but America gently covered it with her hand. “I’m going to go with you. To make sure you don’t break your promise.”
“Good idea,” I said. I opened the door, and instantly adrenaline burned through the last half of the whiskey. The Porsche rocked once, and the windows were fogged.
Unsure of how my legs moved so fast in my condition, I was suddenly at the bottom of the stairs. America took a fistful of my shirt. As small as she was, she was surprisingly sturdy.
“Travis,” she said in a loud whisper. “Abby’s not going to let it go too far. Try to calm down, first.”
“I’m just going to check that she’s okay,” I said, taking the few steps to Parker’s car. The side of my hand hit the passenger-side window so hard, I was surprised it didn’t break. When they didn’t open the door, I opened it for them.
Abby was fidgeting with her dress. Her hair a mess and gloss-less lips, a telltale sign of what they’d been doing.
Parker’s face tensed. “What the hell, Travis?”